


Harold can't die

by Set_me_free



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, F/F, Mentioning of alcohol abuse, Slow Burn, This is just my twisted sense of humour, Writer/assistant AU, mentioning of suicide, no one actually dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Set_me_free/pseuds/Set_me_free
Summary: Someone on tumblr asked for a stranger than fiction AU. This is not it. I did borrow scenes from the movie, though.Writer/assistant AU.Best-selling novelist Bernie Wolfe is known for killing off all her characters at the end.Harold is awaiting the same fate if it weren't for a major writer's block.Serena, renowned publishing assistant, is there to help keep Bernie from any kind of distraction. She proves to be a distraction of its own.





	1. Chapter One

A woman is approaching the ledge of a skyscraper.

Wearing black skinny jeans and an oversized blue and white striped jumper - her clothes blow in the wind. Overlooking the city she twirls an unlit fag in her left hand. Her face is calm, she slowly steps onto the ledge - the parking lot comes into view.

Bernie looks down. She notices a woman get out of her car. She looks at a scrap of paper and then up to the building.

Bernie pulls an empty, crumpled box of cigarettes out of her jeans pocket; puts the still unlit cigarette back into it.

She looks down again, the woman is gone. Bernie closes her eyes, calmly breaths in and out and lifts her arms. The wind picks up, sending a shiver down her spine through her thin jumper, whiffs through unruly blonde hair, blows cold on her face.

Bernie puts one foot up wobbly over the ledge...and with a last deep breath...she jumps.

 

"Excuse me..."

Bernie opens her eyes. She is standing on the side of desk in a scarcely decorated flat. She is wearing black skinny jeans and an oversized striped jumper – her foot dangling in the air.

“Excuse me…”

Bernie turns her head. A daunting, unsmiling woman - dressed in a polka dot dress of all things Bernie discovers – stands in the doorway.

Bernie stares, foot still in the air, arms outstretched to both sides.

The desk is littered with papers, old sandwich wrappers, a half-eaten apple and several cans of lemonade. The only light coming from two – very much in need of cleaning - large full front windows. There’s a couch to the left, a pillow and blanket haphazardly strewn across it as if someone had been sleeping on it. More papers – letters – lying on the couch.

“Are you Ms Wolfe?”

“Yes.” Bernie answers hoarsely.

“Splendid. What are you doing?”

“Standing on a table.”

The woman looks at her quizzical. A smile ghosting her lips fleetingly never reaching her eyes. “Why?”

“Research.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Bernie looks at her dumbfounded. “Sort of.”

The woman puts down her bag on the floor next to the table and looks up to her.

“My name is Serena Campbell. You’re new assistant.” She stretches out her hand in greeting.

“Ah…the babysitter.”

“The assistant.” Serena pulls back her ignored hand stroking through her short hair at the base of her neck reluctantly.

“You’re here to answer the phone, file files, type memos…just generally making sure I’m not distracted.”

“I’m here to make your life easier.”

“So I don’t get distracted.”

“To help you so you can concentrate on writing.”

“They think I have writer’s block.”

Serena looks around the room, desperate to change the course of conversation. She picks up the papers from the couch. “Are these for your book?”

“They’re letters. To me.”

“Are you writing back?”

“No.”

“Well…don’t let me distract you.” Serena begins cleaning up the wrappers and empty cans, puts them in the bin next to the desk. Already overflowing with half-written and tossed pages. She raises an eyebrow. In a very adorable way, Bernie thinks.

“What do you think of leaping off a building?” She asks, finally standing back on the table; realizing she still has her arms and foot up in the air like a deranged flamingo takes down her arms.

“I don’t think of leaping off a building.” Serena answers indignantly, looking at her wonderingly.

“Everyone does!” Hands flailing.

“I don’t. I like to think of nice things!” 

“I read somewhere, it’s hardly ever the impact that kills you…”

“Sure doesn’t help, though.”

Bernie looks at her irritated. “There's this famous photograph ‘The leaper’ – a woman leaped off a building, her body bloody and twisted from the impact but her face…her face was so serene…” Bernie looks at Serena at that. Swallows. “…so at peace.”

“I don’t know how to kill Harold! It has to be perfect. It has to be unique…poetic…just…as much as I’d like to, I can’t just throw him off a building!” Bernie puffs out. She’s looking at Serena desperately through her fringe.

“Ms Wolfe. Bernie. I’ve been an assistant for 25 years, I’ve helped dozens of authors finish their books – quite a few bestsellers, I might add. I have never missed a deadline and I have never lost a writer to a block longer than a few days! For the next weeks I’ll be available to you day and night. And I will gladly help you kill Harold.” 


	2. Chapter Two

The day is almost as dark as night, the skies have opened up to a downpour of rain drowning the colour and life off everything. Out of the corner of her eye Bernie sees a boy running down the sidewalk from the bus stop sidestepping right in front of her little sports car. She turns the wheel to the left abruptly, the car swerving off unto the sidewalk and right into the window of a bakery. Tires are screeching, glass splitters, baked goods are flying around as the car hits the counter. On impact, Bernie is catapulted through the bursting windshield into a particular tasty looking chocolate fudge cake.

People in the shop stand in shock, the boy runs off into the rain. Rain pours into the bakery, over the car; covering Bernie’s lifeless body surrounded by cakes and biscuits…

 

Bernie sits across the bakery on the bench next to the bus stop – staring at it, the unlit cigarette between her slender fingers. 

Serena is standing next to her holding a leopard print umbrella. They look at the – fully intact – bakery. She is wearing another polka dot dress. ‘What is it with this woman and polka dots?’ Bernie wonders.

“What exactly are we doing out here?” 

“We’re imagining a car wreck.”

“Ah…and we can’t do that inside?” Serena pulls her coat closer at the lapels, holds onto them while the wind picks up again.

“No. Did you know most accidents in Holby happen during harsh weather conditions?”

“So does Pneumonia.” Serena states with a raised eyebrow.

“Pneumonia? Mmh…that’s an interesting way to die but it takes ages to kill someone with it…How would Harold even catch Pneumonia in Los Angeles? Even if he caught it at a trip to England in chapter six, it would at least take until chapter 14 for him to bite the dust…”

Serena just shakes her head. “Have you written anything today?”

“No.” Bernie puts the cigarette between her lips.

“I want you to write at least a page until tonight. Do I have to remind you that the publishers expecting to see something…anything…soon?”

“They can see my arse!” Bernie mumbles around her cigarette. Serena tries to hide her laugh through a cough. Bernie smirks at her. 

+++

Bernie and Serena lean comfortably against the wall of the emergency room. Shoulders slightly brushing with every little move. Bernie is again fiddling with her cigarette. Serena is taking notes while they watch patients waiting to be looked at by the doctors. Serena points at a man with an apparently broken leg – one of the bones of his lower leg slightly protruding through his ripped and bloodstained pants.

“Probably just fell in the shower. Most definitely not dead.”

Serena points at a man with what looks to be quite a severe head wound holding his head in his bloody hands. “Hit by his angry boyfriend. Interesting but after some stitching up, he’ll live.”

A young man is rushed in on a stretcher screaming bloody murder. They take him right through to theatre. “Him!” Bernie just looks at her incredulously. “Shot in a gang fight. Harold’s not in a gang.” Serena sighs and points at a woman in a purple suede dress looking unto the scene.

“There’s nothing wrong with her. Just likes looking at sick people.” Bernie deadpans.

Serena looks at her pointedly. 

“I told you this wouldn’t work. Those people aren’t dead!” Bernie gets up and makes her way over to the nurse on charge. A male nurse, she notes. “Excuse me, where are the dying patients?” The nurse looks at her, mouth slightly open. 

Serena wonders for the first time in her life if she’s not going to make it. If this is it. The One. The One that will break her unblemished track record? 

“People around here are just sick, they’ll get better eventually…Which is great and all that but really not helping. So could you point me in the direction of the ones who won’t make it?”

The nurse is still drawing a blank. “Are you…sorry…are you suffering from something?”

“Just writer’s block.”


	3. Chapter Three

Serena finds her fast asleep on the couch, limbs at odd angles dangling over the side, slightly snoring. She picks up last night’s takeaway container and puts them into the bin, yet again spilling written and rewritten and finally discarded pages. She watches Bernie sleep for a moment, turns and heads to the small adjoining kitchen, a slow smile on her lips.

Bernie awakes to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, following it to the kitchen with half-closed eyes. Through her sleepy haze she spots Serena rummaging through the cupboards in search for some clean cups. “You’re a mess, Berenice Wolfe!” Serena exclaims.

“I know.” Serena startles, hits her head on top of the lowermost cupboard. She turns sheepishly, rubbing the sore spot on top of her head. Bernie hasn’t seen something that adorable in…well, if she’s honest with herself, way too long time. She isn’t very good with the whole people thing, that’s why she’s writing books in the first place. It pays the rent, the wonders of the internet make it possible to get anything delivered really, and no one is there to bother her while writing. Well, until recently anyway. Not that she thinks of Serena as a bother. Quite the contrary. She’s clever, witty and not to mention breath-takingly beautiful - ‘Woah, wait, hang on a minute! Breath-takingly beautiful? Where did that come from?’ Bernie stops her musings abruptly.

+++

They sit on the sofa, blanket neatly folded to the side by Serena, coffee cups in hand.

“How’s the writing going?” Serena inquires, blowing softly into the still steaming cup. She knows the answer but wants to hear the words from Bernie. It’s been two weeks and she hasn’t written anything that didn’t end up in the bin sooner or later. It’s been the longest any of her writers ever where stuck on the same page. Serena is worried. About the progress of the book, but mostly about Bernie. Her face small, dark rings under her eyes. The only thing she seems to live on is coffee and the odd takeaway, Chinese mostly.

Bernie mumbles undiscernibly into her cup, shrugs her shoulder.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Serena suddenly says. Smiles at her, really smiles at her. Her eyes lighten up with a spark Bernie hasn’t noticed before. She stares at her blankly. Serena’s bravado somewhat broken she adds, “Fresh air has been known to help to get a new perspective on things.”

Bernie just nods, she’s too tired to argue, really, she knows she won’t get any more writing done today anyway.

+++

They get ice cream at one of those colourful ice cream trucks roaming the city. Chocolate and caramel for Bernie, strawberry and vanilla for Serena. Walking and eating in silence, both lost in their thoughts, mostly concerning the other woman respectively. They cross into the park, sun warm on their faces. Serena spots a bench, goes to sit down, looks up at Bernie and indicates her to sit down, too. Bernie shuffles her feet, kicks a small stone, and finally decides to sit down. They sit close, hips and shoulders touching, Bernie realizes she doesn’t mind at all. She observes her out of the corner of her eye. Delicately licking a bit of melted ice cream from the side of her cone, closed eyes, Serena hums in pleasure. Bernie thinks it’s the most fascinating thing she has ever witnessed.

+++

Back at her flat Bernie tries to write, for some reason she really wants to please Serena, she rather not dwell on the Why for the time being, though. She stares blankly on the pages. Warm, brown eyes staring back at her, laughter lines adorning, mischief shining out of them. Bernie feels all warm and fuzzy inside. This block has been going on for over a month before the agency send Serena, probably even longer since Bernie produced anything remotely worthwhile for the book, her mind wandering trying to find a way to best kill Harold. But lately, her mind has been wandering different places…to short brown hair (adorably interspersed with hints of grey) she wishes to run her hands through, smiling brown eyes, soft, red lips so kissable, flowy polka dot dresses…and it wasn’t helping her kill Harold at all!

She looks around the room – a sad sight really…up until now she didn’t much care about amenities like curtains or carpets or even decorating her flat in any way but with Serena here all the time she had a sense of wanting to make an effort…

She spots the bottle of 16 year old Glenlivet, casually placed behind the lonely armchair in front of the windows. She gets up, picks up the bottle and stares at the label for a moment. Opens the cap and takes a large swig directly from the bottle. Savours it, it’s sweet and spicy; she thinks of Christmas – when was the last time she actually celebrated Christmas? Tastes shades of anise and candied ginger, swallows, it becomes bitter. She sits down in the armchair and stares out the window.

She can smell Serena enter the flat before she hears her, a smell she has become so accustomed to, a smell that is so uniquely Serena. A smell that has been invading her dreams as much as the woman behind her – evidently glad in another ensemble of polka dots, she can hear the bustle of her skirt.

“Drinking at the workplace?” Serena says with a chuckle. “You are a rebel!” Bernie turns her head slightly, smirks through her fringe “Needs one to know one.” She holds out the bottle to Serena, wiggles her eyebrows. Serena takes the offered bottle and takes a large gulp, coughs, eyes watering slightly, hands the bottle back. “I’m more of a Shiraz kinda girl.” She drags the desk chair closer to Bernie, sits down. They sit in comfortable silence, sharing the bottle in between them, Bernie taking the lion’s share, though. Serena starts talking about her life as an assistant, her failed marriage… Bernie just sits, and drinks, and stares, just loves looking at her, listening to her talking.

Her head gets heavy, her vision blurry, ‘She looks like an angel’, she thinks, Serena is bathed in the orange glow of the late afternoon sun. Bernie’s breath slows down, she tries to lift the bottle back to her lips, fails, the empty bottle sliding from her hand, hitting the floor, rolling in front of Serena’s feet. Bernie’s head lolls to the side, her body limp, her last thought before she loses consciousness ‘My Serena’.

“Bernie…” a soft voice. “Bernie…wake up.” More urgent now, a small but strong hand on her shoulder. Bernie slowly opens her eyes, blinks back tears blinded by the sun streaming through open windows. The still half-filled bottle of whiskey in her hand, she looks at it dubiously. “Death by Scottish Single malt…Nope…” she slurs setting down the half empty bottle “Harold evidently has a higher tolerance for alcohol than I recall…”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MissBJinx for tossing a few ideas in my direction!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short one until I've figured out how to go from here to the end I've already written...
> 
> Also, my first language isn't English and I keep using words just because I like the sound of it in my head.

Serena brings her coffee and a sweet treat every morning now. She is looking forward to it. She is not a sweet tooth but she likes the way Serena looks at her when she eats it, prouds herself a little to coax that reaction from her.

Today it is a pecan-caramel-and-cinnamon-bun. It’s awfully sweet and sticks to her teeth. She prods at the stuck caramel with her tongue, she must be quite the sight because suddenly Serena just bursts out laughing, and clutching her sides, a tear running down her cheek. Bernie resists the urge to capture it with her lips and just watches its path down her rosy face. Bernie blushes slightly and excuses herself to the bathroom.

She stands in front of the mirror, looking at herself, dark eyes, and even darker circles under her eyes. When was the last time she slept more than a few hours? She can’t remember. Thin chapped lips, so unlike Serena’s soft and full ones. She touches her lips with calloused fingers, imagines Serena’s well-manicured ones on her face. Red. She’s come to associate this colour with her.

A blush creeps up her face, her heart starts beating faster, she suddenly feels hot, tiny spots of sweat appear upon her brow. Her breath becomes ragged, her mouth feels like pins and needles. Her head hurts. Her tongue is swelling up, she gasps for air. Desperately clutching her throat. Blood hammering in her ears, black spots invade her vision. With one last gasp for air she blacks out.

“Bernie?” Serena’s concerned voice echoes in the small flat. “Are you alright? You’ve been ages in there…” Straightening up, Bernie throws herself a last glance in the bathroom mirror. “Yep, just mulling something over.”


	5. Chapter Five

Serena is watching her from the armchair. Bernie is writing on an old typewriter, it’s been a while since Serena saw someone use it last. She likes the sound of hitting the keys, the rustle of paper, and the soft ping when switching the line. It’s calming - even the constant mumbling from Bernie is rather endearing.

Bernie still looks tired, Serena observes, but not as tired as on the day they met. She made sure she would eat, something small and a coffee in the morning, and a proper meal in the evenings, though most evenings Bernie just sits at the table, prodding the food, lost in her own head. Serena never disturbs her, just eats her food in silent companion. Often Serena would cook for them herself instead of just ordering Bernie’s preferred choice of takeaway. It’s the days Bernie eats.

The worry lines are still there, she can see the self-doubt – and something that looks suspiciously like self-loathing in her eyes. She doesn’t press on it, she is well aware of the accident years ago. It had been all over the news - ‘car of up-and-coming, young writer hit by a truck’ the headlines read. A young woman had died. There had been numerous rumours concerning the accident, but all news outlets agreed on the one juicy headline, whether it was true or not, that it was Bernie’s fault. She didn’t remember the name but Serena had recognized her eyes that first day.

Bernie takes out the sheet she’d been viciously typing at suddenly, crumples it angrily, and tosses it. “Do you fancy a walk?” she asks.

+++

“Remind me why we are currently staking out a bank?” Serena nurses a steaming takeaway coffee mug. Bernie stares at the bank “Because Harold may end up unwittingly becoming embroiled in a bank heist…”

Bernie starts walking across the street, not looking left or right, tires screeching, angry yelling is heard. She doesn’t care, takes out a ski mask, and puts it on. The doors open automatically, she unbags a gun, walks straight up to the counter and demands 100.000 Pound. People run out the bank screaming, the silent alarm is triggered. Bernie waits at the counter calmly.

The police arrives, storming the bank, Bernie turns, aims the gun at them and starts running towards them. Bullets hit, the sound is deafening, one hits her square in the chest, another one crazes her left leg. Blinding pain, she hits the ground, eyes turned upwards to the ceiling, blood is gushing from her chest, she hears screaming and people running – sounds deafened by the sound of her own blood in her ears, vision blurry, a face bending over her, blackness engulfs her.

 

Bernie blinks, a soft touch on her left arm startles her out of her reverie. Concerned, brown eyes looking at her. She puts her own hand over Serena’s, looks at her, and holds on for dear life. Her eyes flitting to Serena’s lips, back up to her eyes, back to her lips, she leans in and ghosts the smallest of kisses upon her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end, only one more chapter coming up. Thank you to all who've been reading and sticking with this story, all kudos and comments have been very much appreciated!  
> This is my first proper story and I do hope I did the characters justice.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The finale chapter of my first proper, multi-chapter story in English. Thank you everyone for reading. And now enjoy!

Bernie enters her flat early morning to find Serena already at work. She just turns and heads out of the flat again. Serena’s eyes follow her retreating back curiously.

They haven’t discussed the kiss. Ever since Bernie has done her best to avoid anything that could be considered being too friendly with each other, jumping a mile high from the simplest of touches. Serena wants to talk about it – scratch that – she wants to kiss her again. Properly, nothing chastise or friendly about it thank you very much. But every time she so much as attempts to broach the subject Bernie bolts. She’s not sure what to make out of this. The kiss hadn’t come as a surprise, Serena had been thinking of it for weeks now and was rather sure so had Bernie. All those lingering looks she tried to hide behind her fringe every time Serena caught her staring. Serena has always proud herself of not mixing business with pleasure but with Bernie she can’t but blur the lines over and over again.

  
Serena finally finds her in the garage, lying on her back next to her car. An empty bottle of whiskey right next to her and yet again an unlit cigarette. Serena cautiously steps closer to her, calling out her name. She crouches next to her, her skirt softly bustling.

“Do you know how many people I have killed?” Bernie asks quietly, eyes tightly screwed shut. “Twelve!” Her fists hit the floor. “Every single one. Every book I’ve ever written ends with them dying. Even the nice ones! I killed…Serena…I killed them all!” A lonely tear escapes her eye. Angrily brushed away with the back of her hand. Turns to face Serena.

She looks at her, has seen this before. The guilt on her face, in her heart. This is not just a writer’s block. This is about Bernie.

“You kill yourself.” A stricken look on her face a lonely div Escape her lips. “You kill yourself, jumping from a building, the car wreck, you kill yourself every single book. It’s you! It’s why you don’t eat, it’s why you hang unto that cigarette, and it’s why you sit in the cold rain for hours. Your life has no joy, your work is dark and you wish you could just die. But you know what, you can’t. Your characters can but you can’t. Your body can’t stand the thought of killing itself anymore.”

Bernie’s eyes well up with unshed tears. “What do I do?”

“Get up off the floor!”

  
+++

  
Bernie sits at her desk, types with trembling hands, tears streaming down her face now. She takes out the crumpled cigarette box, puts the cigarette between her lips, she reaches across the desk for her long abandoned lighter. Her hands are shaking, she can’t get the lighter to work. Looks at it angrily. She stares at the cigarette and crumples it in her hand. No more, she thinks.

  
+++

  
Serena reads the manuscript, her face unmoving, when she’s finished she puts it down. “it’s…okay.”

“It’s not great. I know.”

“No, but it’s okay, it’s not bad. It’s…not the most amazing piece of literature I’ve ever read but…its okay.”

Bernie looks at her. “You know, I think I’m fine with okay.” She tentatively smiles at Serena, trying to convey everything she cannot say.

“It doesn’t make sense with the rest of the book, though.” Serena regards her. “I’ll request more time so you can rewrite it.” Bernie nods and smiles at her in thanks. They stare at each other for a moment. Serena’s lips part to say something.

“Why?” Bernie looks at her quizzical “You changed it. Why?” Serena elaborates.

“Lots of reasons.” She shrugs “ I just couldn’t do it.” Serena patiently waits for her to continue.

“It’s a book about a man who knows he’s going to die and yet willingly gives his live, knowing he could stop it…isn’t that a man you would want to keep alive?” She stops, looks at Serena, they stare at each other. Her lips part. Her fingers twitch at her side. They just look at each other awkwardly.

“Would you like to go get coffee?” Bernie offers.

“No….I mean... I can’t. I quit.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes.” Serena glances at her sheepishly.

“I just quit myself actually.” Serena looks at her, eyebrow raised in surprise. “Smoking I mean. Properly this time. I threw away my leftover cigarettes.”

“When?”

“Page 345.”

“Ah.” They smile at each other.

“How about something else…?”

“Tea…?”

“Tea and scones?” Serena eyes light up.

“That sounds…yes…you know, I know an excellent bakery!”

Serena holds out her hand which Bernie grabs gingerly a soft smile playing around her lips. A surge of bravery, she tucks at Serena’s hand, pulls her close, her left hand circles her hip, thumb slightly grazing her waist. Eyes flicker between their eyes and lips. Serena lifts her free hand to Bernie's cheek, softly stroking it ,finally settling on the base of her neck. Only a moment of hesitation before both draw closer, bridge the distance to meet in a kiss. Not chaste like the first time but passionate and sure of themselves. Serena softly nips at her bottom lip, smiling. They break for air, foreheads touching, Bernie softly nuzzling their noses. She’s okay. They’re okay. Bernie feels – for the first time in a long time – hopeful for the future.

  
The End.


End file.
